


Accessorizing Your Sister

by phinnia



Series: All God's Children [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 15:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: Michael goes to see Aziraphale and Crowley for Reasons.   There is singing and makeup and debate over the accepted uses of tartan.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: All God's Children [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533431
Kudos: 53





	Accessorizing Your Sister

Michael corporated down to Soho that afternoon and looked around for Crowley's (or Samshiel or whatever he was calling himself nowadays) car.

Not there. Aziraphale was inside the shop, though. 

She sighed, hardly believing it had actually come to _this_. She had come down here. To talk to them. The outcast ones.

She opened the door.

"Is that you, dear?" Aziraphale shouted. "How are the children?"

"It's not ... it's not him." Michael sighs. "I - I just want to talk." 

"Well, come in, come in, then." He fusses around, looking rather human in that moment, bumbling around the shop. "Sit down! Here. Do you want a tea?"

"Tea?"

"It's a human beverage. It's very ... calming. I'll make you one!" 

Michael sits on the edge of a large chair and looks around. The store is full of books. No, the store is _littered_ with books. They are on every surface, stacked, in other chairs, on windowsills, on stairsteps. There are a lot of books. That seems to be an enormous understatement. 

"Where's ... where's your husband gone?" She asks, trying to be polite.

"Oh! He took a few of our young friends to see the West End version of Hamilton again." He says fondly. "Should be back any time now, though. They're all mad for it. Pepper especially, all those feminists. Young Wensleydale likes the history best. Brian likes the cannons and guns. Adam always wants to stop Hamilton getting shot. I think Crowley just likes imagining the male actors in leather trousers. And the songs, of course." He hands Michael her tea. "Don't make that face, dear."

"You don't think it's ... wrong of him to do that?"

"He's just looking at the menu. Doesn't stop him from wanting a full dinner when he gets home." Aziraphale's smile was small and almost ... unangelic. She was trying to decide whether to ask what he was thinking about or whether she really wanted to know about it when the door was flung open, framing Crowley in it. He was clad entirely in black, as usual, and grinning. 

"Here we go." Aziraphale murmurs softly, chuckling.

"How does a bastard orphan son of a whore and a Scotsman  
Dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence, a squatter  
Grow up to be a hero and a scholar?"

Michael was convinced he was about to go on, but then he caught her eye and staggered back. "What's she doing here?"

"Oh. I believe she wanted to talk." 

"Well, she just ruined my entrance."

"Darling, we do have the recordings, you can do it again later."

"Well, all right." Crowley sprawls across the sofa in front of Michael. "What do you want?"

"I need some help."

His mouth twitched. "You're asking _me_ for help. Let me savor the moment. What d'you need help with, exactly?"

"Um. Fashion. Hair. That sort of thing."

"Oh, thank - whatever I got home when I did." Crowley waves his arm at Aziraphale. "You have _him_ giving you fashion advice you'd be stuck in the 1850's without a map or a paddle."

"Don't listen to him. Tartan is stylish." Aziraphale whispers, putting a tray of biscuits on the table between them.

"Angel, tartan is stylish on punk teenage girls wearing very short skirts. That's it. And I think most of that might just be their legs." Crowley gets up and walks around. "Now. We basically have ... nothing to work with."

Michael opened her mouth.

"It's all right, having nothing to work with, though, because we can change _everything_, you'll look fantastic after." He handed her a large stack of books. "Look through these. See if you like anything in there."

"What are those?" Aziraphale asks.

"Oh, the best of my looks over the past ... no, not that one. Just that last one. That's the last twenty years. Stick to that." He shrugs. "She's got the same coloring as me." 

"Ooh." Aziraphale looks over Michael's shoulder. "I never saw you in that outfit. Tartan!"

"Yes, tartan." He snaps his fingers and is now wearing skin-tight tailored black watch tartan trousers instead of the jeans. "I never really liked these much. Most people had them in that ridiculous tomatoey red color. I like this better." 

"Oh, _darling_." Aziraphale murmurs. "You look stunning in that."

"What about something like that?" Michael asks. "In a skirt?"

Crowley thinks for half a moment. "Yeah, can do that." He snaps his fingers. "No. Wrong pattern." He changes the Black Watch to a blue and pink weave, with bits of lavender. 

"What on earth are you doing - oh!" Aziraphale chuckles. "I see what you're about now." 

"Nobody says I'm not subtle." Crowley grins. "I spent six thousand years being subtle. What are we going to do with your hair? Long or short?" 

"Leave it short."

"Soft butch. I approve. Change the shirt, definitely." Crowley snaps his fingers again. 

Michael looks down. It was a just plain black t-shirt. 

"There. Now, earrings. Put these on." Crowley takes a pair out of his pocket.

Michael puts the silver hoops in her ears. "They're heavy."

"Well, I thought about doing the safety pin thing but it might be a bit much. And the shoes, definitely. Gotta change the shoes. Hang on." He goes upstairs. "I forgot where I put them." He's shouting. "And you can't have these, I want them back. Nancy Spungen gave them to me, all right?" 

"Sid Vicious was one of yours?" Aziraphale asks.

"Surprised you've heard of him." Crowley comes down, carrying a pair of boots. 

"Well, he was a good student before he got mixed up with that John Immoral character and all the drugs." 

Crowley raises an eyebrow, slowly. "Sweetheart, do you mean _Johnny Rotten?_ No, never mind. You think Velvet Underground is bebop. I need a drink." He tosses the boots at Michael's feet. "Try these on."

Michael slides them on her feet and starts doing up the laces. 

"Let me look at your face." Crowley is leaning over her with a small brush and a pencil. "There. Eyeliner, a little mascara. You look fantastic. Garcon, the mirror." 

Aziraphale snaps his fingers.

Michael looks and can hardly recognize herself. 

She blinks. The girl in the mirror blinks back. 

"I look ... different." She whispers. "I really look different. I look better."

"One more thing." Aziraphale goes outside for a moment and comes back in. "You need a pair of these." He hands Michael something.

"Oh!" Crowley laughs. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."

Michael looks down. It is a pair of sunglasses. She puts them on. They look a little better partway down the nose, she thinks.

Crowley gives her a very unexpected hug. "Now, nobody will have any idea what to expect."

"Especially Pravuli." Aziraphale replies, also hugging her. 

"Who said anything about -" Michael turns pale.

They both just give her the same sort of 'you-must-think-we're-really-stupid' look.

"Come on, up you go." Aziraphale says, chuckling. 

"Don't forget, I want those boots back!" Crowley shouts after her.

Michael disappears, but she's smiling.

"Well, that was different." Crowley says. 

"Yes, it was." Aziraphale chuckles and pulls him into his lap. "I do like these lovely trousers on you."


End file.
